The sun slit a knife through the womb-wet night
and bled like an egg, like a budburst head:
in the swell of the sweat on the belly of the bed,
broken-throated then and red, you said
the clench of winter let the roses grow instead.
But time has fled with jenny wren and left
the meadow dead. And overhead a mouth of moon
has called the mourning on this room, and soon
an ever-bloom of moss will clot the loss of you.
For the years between us are wide as a child;
and the tears as wet as a wound.